Ginny’s face puckered into an expression that would have made a martyr’s appearance seem frivolous. “I’ll get the food for him.”
With alacrity, Cal sprang to his feet to escort her, and more importantly, his food, on the journey to and from the kitchen.
At the narrow entrance to the kitchen, Ginny paused. Behind her, dying embers in the stove gave a soft light. “You may wait here.”
“And let you put arsenic in my food this time?” He moved into the space.
“If you’d had half a brain, you would have tasted the tonic in the food. What kind of lawman are you anyway?” She bent over the ice box and produced a slab of meat.
“The kind that used to trust civilized looking young women.”
“Did you think the mountains of Colorado were tamed by civilized society?” She slapped a loaf of bread onto the counter, curled her fingers around a knife, and dug it viciously into a ham slab. “I want back on the case.”
“Case?”
“The one you’re hiding from me.”
He shrugged.
Her hand came up, knife still in it. “You won’t win.”
He reached for the ham portion she’d sliced. Her knife came down, protecting it.
Taking hold of her wrist, he pushed it away to prevent her from committing the crime of threatening a lawman with a deadly weapon.
She yanked against him and winced. Had she sprained her wrist? He hadn’t intended to cause her pain. But since her knife was now pointed in his direction, he wasn’t about to let go to check.
She gazed at him and parted her pretty lips. “You’re not much of a gentleman.”
“What do you think a gentleman does when’s a knife pointed at him?”
“Unhand me.” She pointed her chin up to him defiantly, but her face betrayed her, misgiving glistening on those pink cheeks that curved delicately around soft features.
“Put down the knife.”
She didn’t, but with her other arm, she reached out and touched him.
His head cocked.
Stepping into the circle of his arms, still clenching the knife, she looked up at him. Her breath blew on his collar as, inches from him, her chest moved up and down. She touched his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Scaring you away.”
“I’m not a schoolboy.” And this was no one-room schoolhouse. The dim light of the stove’s embers flickered.
“You’re saying you won’t draw back if I talk of rings and babies and do this?” Her chest brushed his as she looked up at him with those dreamy green eyes and clasped her hand against his heart.
“No. If you do that again, I’m going to kiss you.” If she hadn’t intoxicated his food, he’d be tempted to do that anyway.
She jerked back. “You wouldn’t dare!” Red spread up her neck, but it looked more like anger than embarrassment.
“Try me.”
She folded her arms in with the knife overtop of her chest. “Uncle Zak would send you packing so fast Texas wouldn’t have time to miss you.”
“Then lay down the knife and surrender the ham sandwich.”
Her eyes narrowed. Slamming the knife on the counter, she slathered some relish on the meat, flung another slice of bread on top, and shoved the dripping mess toward him. “Here. Only because it isn’t Christian to starve people to death.”
~*~
Halfway through the pickle jar, most of the way through a hunk of chocolate cake, and just starting his third ham sandwich, Cal leaned back against the faded yellow cushions of the backroom settee. Ginny sat on the couch with her feet gathered beneath her.
Moonlight poured in the wall’s high windows and Sheriff Thompson stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry. I’m keeping you up.” Cal made to stand.
Sheriff Thompson waved him back down. “No. No. It’s getting late. Stay the night.”
A strange choking sound came from Ginny. Her body stiffened to statue-like hardness.
As much as Cal appreciated the look of abject horror on her face, he felt pretty much the same way. He’d prefer three thousand leagues between them, but the three measly miles from here to the boarding house would have to do. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense.” Sheriff Thompson set down his glass of lemonade. “I should have invited you here first off instead of letting you be abused by that boarding house. Besides, after this morning, I think an extra gun in the house would make us all sleep quieter at night.”
The afghan over Ginny flew off as she leapt to her feet. “I have extra guns, and I can shoot just fine.”
How could he refuse Sheriff Thompson’s request when he put it like that? “All right, I’ll stay. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Sheriff Thompson smiled. “I’ll be getting to bed, then. Early morning tomorrow getting that list from John. You can sleep out here.”
Ten minutes after the sheriff had clomped his way upstairs, Ginny dropped a stack of blankets and dark glances onto Cal.
The blankets actually looked soft, and new—much nicer than the boardinghouse’s linens. Maybe she’d already used up all the bedbug infested rags on the last object of her wrath.
He tossed the stack on the settee. “Good night.”
“Not with you around.”
“I echo your sentiments.” With a yawn, he threw himself down on the fabric.
6
The rising sun streamed into the Thompson kitchen, bathing a cluttered china cabinet and polished floorboards with light. Ginny had beaten the sun by at least two hours. Once again, she considered which able-bodied men in town might be coerced into a posse. Peter Foote had a decent seat on a horse, but she wasn’t sure how good his target eye was. She’d have to work on that with him after they fell desperately in love and got married and all.
With the tip of a metal spatula, she rolled sausages in frying grease. She shook the cast-iron skillet handle with her other hand, shifting the sautéing onions and peppers. The grease sizzled, sending up hunger-inspiring odors. Would cream cheese coffee cake go with sausage omelet? Likely not, but she still wanted some.
Noise from upstairs and the creaking of wood overhead signaled that Uncle Zak had risen. She crossed the kitchen and rummaged through the ice box. Halfway under a slab of fish, but not all the way down to the custards that sat on top of the coffee cake, she heard a noise.
She looked up to the scuff of Cal’s boots. Clamping down the icebox’s heavy lid, she rose. But he, to her annoyance, just stood there.
The onions began a sizzling show of sparks and fireworks on the heavy iron range, and as loathe as she was to turn her back on him, she crossed to tend them.
No reason for concern. He didn’t stay out of eyeshot long. Leaning upon the faded wallpaper of the corner wall, he placed himself a little too close for comfort. “Why?”
She splashed the bowl of beaten eggs on top of the sausage. “Why what?”
“Why did you poison me?”
A peek under the lid of a burner and she gave the fire inside one extra log. “I scarcely think I owe you an explanation.” She tried to forget how close she’d stood to him in this very kitchen last night.
“Unless you make a habit of intoxicating all and sundry, you ought to have quite the explanation for that stunt.”
He leaned back, remarkably at ease considering he’d threatened to kiss her last night. He ought to have been frightened by the prospect of Uncle Zak. Charles, the only boy she’d ever kissed, had been. But no, Cal Smug Westwood acted like he was the quickest gun in the West. Maybe he was. Had he caught dozens of wanted men? Been part of gun fights? She examined the lines of his hand, strong fingers ready for action.
This was ridiculous. For all she knew, he might never have fired a shot in his life. “You don’t have to hold such a grudge. It’s not like I robbed you while intoxicated.”
“If that was the case, I’d have you behind bars right now and take immense satisfaction in it
, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s Uncle Zak’s and my jail. We wouldn’t give you the key.”
“There is such a thing as law and order. Does this town know nothing of that? Pies in the jail, cowhands not afraid of the sheriff.”
“It’s scarcely Uncle Zak’s fault that he’s hard to hate. I’m sure if you ever rose up the ranks to sheriff, a highly unlikely possibility, you wouldn’t have that problem.” She impaled a sizzling sausage on a cooking fork.
“Rose up the ranks?” Outrage widened his eyes
“Yes, you’re just a deputy now.” She still wasn’t entirely sure he was a law-abiding deputy either. He’d lied to her.
His mouth shot open; his tongue started to move. He clamped his jaw shut and stared sullenly at the stove.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He grunted.
“You’re such a…man.”
“Do you hate all men, or am I special?”
“Oh, you’re special all right.” She gave the eggs a vigorous thwack with her spatula. They flipped, rising high in a perfect arc and splattered back down in the pan to the sound of footsteps.
Uncle Zak entered the kitchen, his smiling face, shaved to a shine, blissful. “Of course, our Cal is special, and that breakfast smells delicious.”
Cal hastily stopped leaning on the wallpaper. “I’ll walk over with you to get that list from Mr. Clinton.”
Uncle Zak shook his head. “John’s real tight-lipped. He’ll talk better to an old friend. You walk Ginny over to the sheriff’s office and get started on that posse.”
Shoving away from the stove and nearly upsetting the cast iron pan of eggs in her haste, she propelled herself in front of Uncle Zak. “I’ve drawn up a list of names for the posse.”
Cal dug his hands into his pockets, making a wrinkle in the fabric. “I thought she was off this case.”
Scratching behind one ear, Uncle Zak hemmed a moment. “A list of names isn’t exactly dangerous.”
“Anyone who gets involved in this case could become a target.” Cal’s face had an unyielding set to it.
Stupid man. Did he really think he knew the town well enough to gather up a posse?
“You really think a list of names could make Ginny a gang target?” Uncle Zak tilted his head.
Gang! Ginny’s spatula clattered to the floor. “There’s a—”
Cal glared at Uncle Zak. “Sir, I told you not to—”
“Gang! There’s a gang, and you didn’t even tell me?” Ginny’s voice rose in a shriek.
“Tell anyone. And she is most definitely an anyone.” Cal’s voice clipped the air.
Uncle Zak turned his gray eyes apologetically toward Cal. “I’m sorry. She won’t repeat it.”
“How could you not tell me?” Ginny swept up the frying pan and dumped the whole contents onto one plate.
“You see. She’s out of control now.” Cal raised both hands.
Her voice rose, shaking the pots that hung from the ceiling. “I am not out of control!”
Uncle Zak sighed. “The two of you just go over to the sheriff’s office after breakfast, all right? I’ll meet you there, and if we need to talk more, we can.”
How easily Uncle Zak capitulated to Cal’s nefarious plot. She scooted a bit of omelet onto her plate and swallowed twice. She had things to accomplish this morning. If they thought they could solve a gang case without her, they were dead wrong. “I’m done. See you at the office—”
A horrendous scream cut off the rest of that sentence. Cal sprang to his feet.
Sighing, she extricated a sausage link with her thumb and forefinger. “Fluffy. Come here, Fluffy.”
The furry troublemaker stuck her white nose out from the formal dining room. Stretching out her front claws to full length, the creature scratched gouges in the hardwood floor.
Ginny flung the sausage toward the dining room. Lunging forward, Fluffy grabbed the sausage between two paws. Then the cat threw it into the air and screamed again.
Uncle Zak sighed. “I should have shot that cat years ago.”
Ginny lowered her eyebrows. No one shot her valiant watch-cat. Her faithful friend followed her between home and the sheriff office, always offering protection and devotion.
Another blood-curdling shriek erupted from Fluffy. All right, maybe Uncle Zak had a point.
Only one trick left to try to calm the cat. Inside the dusty dining room, the family piano, which had been passed down from her great-grandmother, to her grandmother, to her mother, and then fell haplessly into her own untalented hands, sat in all its mahogany glory. If she were anything like her mother, she’d serenade the evening hours with minuets and waltzes. She wasn’t, but the piano did serve one useful purpose.
Throwing open the lid, she unceremoniously pounded out the first two bars of “Chopsticks”—or what she remembered of the song. Mrs. Clinton, from some sense of duty to society, had paid a piano teacher to give Ginny two years of piano lessons when Ginny was fifteen, and to this day, Mrs. Clinton thought Ginny had been an excellent pupil. She squirmed on the worn down seat of the piano bench.
Even now, four years later, Ginny had never quite worked up the courage to tell Mrs. Clinton that she’d split her supposed practice times between reading eastern newspaper accounts of remarkable law enforcement captures and target practice. Anyway, the music did its magic. Fluffy stopped screaming and settled down to her sausage link with a soft purr.
Swiveling, Ginny spotted Cal in the doorway. His eyes, opened wide, matched his sagging jaw.
“That’s your cat?” Cal’s mouth hung open.
“Leaving,” she called over to Uncle Zak. She abandoned the piano seat and crossed to place her dirty plate in the sink.
“Right behind you.” Cal’s face had an I-don’t-trust-you-alone-in-that-office-for-one-minute look to it.
Yes, she had gotten keys from the boarding house proprietor and placed her valiant watch-cat in his room. Fluffy had quite enjoyed the little adventure. Cal would get over it or leave. Either way worked for her.
The walk to the office was significantly less than satisfying. The sun made brilliant patterns on the street. A lovely wind played with her dress and hair and some sort of small, unidentified bird made chirping noises. But Cal walked a few feet away and that ruined the morning, especially since he had a self-righteous set to his shoulders. Honestly, she had every right to try to run him out of town. She’d thought he was a criminal. He still might be.
What was this about a gang in Gilman? How could she hope to build her sheriff election platform when Uncle Zak hid such essential facts as the presence of a gang from her?
“You planted the cat.” Cal walked as far away from her as he could while still obeying the dictates of civility.
She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Does the creature always scream like that?”
She sent a mound of dust sailing up with the toe of her boot. “Fluffy is not a creature and she is quite well-behaved when her sensitive musical tendencies are indulged.”
“Yeah. Your piano song was about as ear-jarring as the cat. Doesn’t the creature respond to the ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ or ‘Suzanna’?”
Her eyebrows tightened and she tucked her shoulders in. “Maybe I don’t exactly play piano.”
“You’re what, nineteen years old, and managed to completely miss the refined art of piano playing? Why am I not surprised?”
She held her head high, even if it meant the morning sunbeams burnt her eyes. “Maybe in your big Texas cities, the women don’t have anything more significant to employ their time than musical exhibition, but I spent my childhood doing important things.”
He looked unimpressed. “Give me a list sometime of all the criminals you’ve caught.”
By employing extreme mental fortitude, she managed to avoid sticking her tongue out at him. “You’re supposed to be an officer of the law and you don’t even know how to swim. What if a criminal jumped into a lake?”
“Who cares?” Cal forged ahead toward the sheriff’s office.
“You know the name Calvin means bald one,” she called after him.
He turned back. “Do you make it your mission in life to turn every male in this town stark raving mad from aggravation?”
Unblinking, she stared at him. “I have a good working relationship with almost every male in this town.” Charles being an exception. “I was invited by two different men to spend an evening of conversation with them at the Fourth of July picnic.” She’d said no to both because it didn’t seem worthwhile to waste time on them when she was marrying Peter Foote.
Cal grunted. “They were probably only willing to put up with you because you’re the prettiest woman in Gilman.”
What? How could he say that? Hadn’t he met Cherry? Ginny blinked. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I’m not blind.”
She squirmed underneath her corset.
Silence reigned as he stared back at her. He looked like a Texas Ranger standing there, a pair of Colts at his hips.
If, after all, he wasn’t a lawbreaker, perhaps she had been a bit harsh with him. Mrs. Clinton’s concoction had been foul, and he’d drained the entire glass for her. More importantly, she needed to find out about this gang.
“Interested in calling a truce?” Temporarily, of course. She’d have to run him out of town if she discovered any criminal activity. Maybe with her back on the case, she’d so impress Uncle Zak with her skill that he’d forget all about Cal Westwood as a successor. If Cal remained law abiding, she’d allow him to be her deputy.
“A truce means both sides have been the aggressor. I never poisoned you.” Blue eyes lofty, he glared at her
“You took me off the case.” That was a thousand times worse than vomiting a few times.
“That was mere business.”
“Yes, if you’re in the business of ruining my career.” She glared at him.
HStony-eyed, he stared back.
She glared harder.
He closed his eyes for a long second and then opened them. A sigh escaped his chest. “You want a truce?”
“Yes.” She rested her hands where a gun belt would have hung if she’d worn one. Temperance League prejudices aside, she really should start wearing one.
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